


To Woo a Q

by Rigel99



Series: To Be a Quartermaster [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Bond Loves A Challenge, During Skyfall, Let Battle Commence, M/M, Podfic Welcome, Pre-Skyfall, Q is a Challenge, Quantum of Solace, shameless flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-17 19:52:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 14,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5883496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rigel99/pseuds/Rigel99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MI6's new Quartermaster may well turn out to be Bond's most challenging mission to date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

A boy.

Q.

_Is a boy._

Barely out of college long enough to discover a nutritional plan beyond pot noodles and cups of tea, if the frame of his slim body and pale skin is anything to go by. Bond wondered absently if the boy before him still had his mother straighten his tie and comb his hair before he left for work in the morning. He inwardly corrected that thought as he took in the mess of brown waves. Maybe Bond could give him some grooming tips. Or buy him a comb at the very least.

Despite what Bond is thinking, his features maintain their well honed expression of neutrality while Q drones on - from behind the safety of his desk, Bond notes in mild amusement - about the latest developments in Division that he expects the Double-O’s to do their best to respect by bringing them back to him in one piece or, if they can’t manage that, at least in as many salvageable pieces as possible. Though he won’t be holding his breath.

Dry. Deadpan. Wonderful. More British than the vision of Winston Churchill sipping a cup Earl Grey from a Union Jack mug. Bond can tell he’s going to be bloody irritating. And while Bond isn’t much of a one for following orders at the best of times (or the worst of times for that matter), it’s at least a little easier to accept orders from a senior member of staff when that member of staff IS actually SENIOR…

“You’ll find I’m not like your predecessors. Quartermasters are as subject to the rules of evolution in Military Intelligence much as any species subject to the requirements enforced by the demands they must meet in answer to being amongst the fittest of survivors.”

He had foregone the safety provided by the barrier of his desk and stood in front of them, leaning his slight frame against it for support, though there was no sign of discomfort or unease as he faced Britain’s finest. _Far too cocksure for all of his twenty-something years,_ Bond thought to himself, making a mental note to find out more about their new Quartermaster and maybe unearth some chinks in the armourer’s cool, calm veneer.

“I’ll get this out there right now, so our future professional interactions are not subject to any misunderstandings. I know you don’t like me. No doubt I remind you of some self-opinionated, jumped-up University graduate in need of taking down a peg or two…” He met each of the agents look levelly, lingering for just a fraction longer on Bond. “Liking each other, however, is not pre-requisite to getting the job done.”

He sighed as he tilted his head down to allow his hand to meet his glasses, pushing them back up the bridge of his nose. “If it’s any consolation - and I’m sure it won’t be taken as such - I see the Double O program as a necessary part of Q Division, an extension of the tools required to get the job done in the service of Queen and Country.”

Bond felt himself bristle ever so slightly. _Speaking of Queens, who does this Diva of Division think he is?_ Bond was visualising just how many pegs he would need to put the lad in his place. There was definitely a shift in the testosterone levels in the room, highly trained senses picking up on the change almost immediately. Apparently Bond wasn’t alone in the line queuing for pegs…

Just the reaction Q was looking for, and expecting, as he turned his back and allowed himself the briefest of smiles. Geek of the highest order he may be, but that wasn’t the only qualification he held that made him ideal for the position of Quartermaster. A degree and two years experience in practical psychology certainly afforded one an upper hand when dealing with the egos of field agents.

“But know this,” he continued as he turned back to again face the agents before him. “I consider each of you as precious and important as any of the tech and tools I and my team slave over tirelessly night and day to make your job as easy as possible, giving our best to ensure the success of each mission in which you find yourselves. In short, the safe return of each of you is equally as important to me as any asset of Q Division.”

And judging from the relaxed ripple that passed through the room, Q had struck the right balance in his comments and observations. With the exception of one. Because there always is _one_ , isn’t there, he thought to himself with an inward sigh.

His gaze fell on Bond as he concluded. “Thank you for your time, ladies and gentlemen. I look forward to working with you.” Bond held his gaze. Q could literally feel the battle lines being drawn between them as he raised his defensive walls and squared his slight body, returning the defiant gaze without a hint of being affected by the intimidation Bond was so evidently attempting to inflict on him.

Q realised, a little too late, as the other agents dispersed, that Bond was effectively perceiving their interaction as a challenge. M had warned him about the man’s gung ho approach to field work and that Bond, while an exceptional agent endowed with skills and instinct that surpassed all his peers, was about as manageable as an oil-slicked cat. Q, at least, had some experience of cats, though judging by the look trained on him at the moment, Q was coming to the rapid conclusion that he may well be trying to pin down an oil-slicked tiger in their future interactions.

And as Bond turned his body away while keeping his blue steel gaze firmly fixed on his Quartermaster, neither man breaking the contact until circumstances finally demanded, little did Q realise that his final thought as Bond left his presence would, over time, manifest in more ways than one.


	2. Chapter 2

Bond couldn’t breath.

Water filled his lungs, his brain, his blood burning from the lack of oxygen. He reached an arm through the bars of the gate, trapped and submerged in the cool waters of the Adriatic. From beyond and just out of reach, Vesper watched him as he drowned, a smile on her face, a peaceful expression in her eyes.

Why is she smiling? What’s wrong with her? I’m drowning. Dying, dying, lost…

 _Don’t leave me, Vesper. Please. Don’t…_ The words went unheard from his cooling lips, until they floated towards the sky, broke the surface and—

James woke up tangled in sweat-soaked cotton sheets.

_Damn._

He tossed back the cover sheet and strolled over to his penthouse window to watch dawn break.

 _I miss you, you fucking traitorous bitch._ The sun pierced the horizon. Bond wrapped his arms around his bare torso against the chill in the room. _When the hell are we going to let each other go?_

* * *

“M asked me to keep a surreptitious eye on him and report if I clocked anything unusual. I mean what am I supposed to report, Tanner? Bond - or any Double O for that matter - by the very definition, is hardly usual.” Villiers was absent-mindedly leafing through the file in his hands as he spoke. “And I mean, it’s not like he’s going to confide anything personal to me. I’m hardly his type.”

“Well, you may not be his type, Villiers, but he is everybody’s type.”

“Funny, Tanner. And completely unhelpful.”

“M is merely concerned. Agents are very good at fooling even MI6’s arduous psych evals. From what I’ve heard, the loss of Vesper Lynd hit him as hard, if not harder, than even the loss of his wife. All I can say is, good luck to the next unfortunate that falls for his charms. That’ll be a rebound hard enough to cause a shift in the planet’s orbit…”

The unnervingly calm sound of the Quartermaster’s voice interrupted their quiet conversation. “Found those files I asked for yet, Tanner? If you have time to be standing around gossiping like a couple of old washerwomen over a picket fence, I’m sure I’ll find them waiting on my desk were I to return to my office this moment?”

“Yessir, nosir, right away, Q,” flustered Tanner, gathering himself and the contents of his arms with a quick withering glance towards Villiers before heading out of the file room.

Clearing his throat, Villiers didn’t wait for a reprimand. “Must get these files to M, Sir.”

“You do that,” said Q.

Q watched the back of the men retreat as he backed deeper into the file archives. Evidently, there were aspects of Bond’s past that remained firmly under lock and key, and he himself was not yet a familiar enough presence in the bricks and mortar of MI6 to be privy to historical gossip of such nature. Gossip, he thought to himself wryly. For all their gadgets and clever methods of intelligence gathering by subterfuge, gossip truly was a brand of intelligence sharing one could genuinely rely upon. He reached the door to the private room and keyed in the access code. He would have to lobby M for access to that information, he thought to himself as the door slipped shut behind him. How on God’s green earth could he be expected to keep the agents safe in the field if he wasn’t completely familiar with aspects of their personality that might jeopardise a mission, or worse still, get said agent killed?

No. Being kept in the dark on such matters was unacceptable and he’d make damn sure he’d convince M of the same.

* * *

“Italy…”

“Yes, Bond,” M said, barely glancing up from the report on her desk. “Is that going to be a problem?”

 _Of course it was a bloody problem._ “Of course not. Ma’am.”

“Good.” She gave him a cursory glance and a dismissive wave of her hand. “Off you go then. Villiers will furnish you with the information you need and you can digest it on the flight.”

“Thank you, Ma’am,” Bond said turning on his heel to exit her office. Bond wondered if M had children.

Poor bastards.

* * *

“You’ll be overseeing 007’s mission in Venice, Q,” M’s voice was crisp and clear across the internal comms. Everything, it seems, comes at a price, including wanting to know the deepest, darkest secrets of the men and women you were expected to keep alive.

“Venice, Ma’am?”

“Yes, Q. Venice. Unfortunately, MI6 cannot dictate the movements and operations of other intelligence agencies just so we can pander to our own.”

Q bit back a retort. It wouldn’t do well to voice what he was thinking in that moment unless he wanted to end up face down in the Thames with his cats clinging to his back. “Of course not, Ma’am. I’m just wondering would it be less of a risk to the success of the mission were another Double-O assigned.”

“All our other operatives are engaged,” she said sharply. “It’s Bond’s responsibility. And he is yours. Consider the exercise a test in his ability to continue be an effective asset and yours to ensure he remains that way,” she said, cutting the call.

Q wondered if M had children.

Hapless little sods.


	3. Chapter 3

_Christ Almighty. What a bloody day. Not even a vat of Earl Grey could ease the pain of this one…_

Q grabbed his parka off the coat rack in his office, bunched it on his desk, collapsed on the chair and lay a weary head gently down as though it would shatter if he dropped it too quickly. He’d only barely managed to get 007 out of a rather precarious situation, after he’d had to rescue a diplomat that had basically been a doppelgänger of Yusef Kabira, the once boyfriend of Vesper Lynd. Somehow, and with a little subtle coaxing from Q to keep him on track, Bond had managed to keep his, no doubt, still fragile wits about him. He wasn’t sure why MI6 didn’t just save government funding and take a blasted whisk to Bond’s brain, scramble it and send him to a funny farm. He closed his eyes. He had no idea how the Double-Os managed their jobs. The only thing he could think was that they had to be seriously buggered up individuals in the first place for MI6 to be able to piece them together into something workable for intelligence service. Workable in a deadly, assassin, shoot-first-ask-questions-later kind of way, but workable nonetheless.

But Bond was safe. Halfway to London now, en route from Rome.

The desk lamp behind his head was the only source of illumination in the room so he groaned when he recognised the harsh glare of corridor fluorescence spill through the crack in his door currently being pushed open. His quiet solitude interrupted no doubt by a minion who didn’t know better than to disturb a Quartermaster on the verge of mental collapse.

“Sir?” _Tanner._

Q barely opened his eyes as he spoke, rising his head a fraction from his parka pillow. “Unless your presence in my immediate vicinity is a matter of life and death, Tanner, this interruption will be a matter of YOUR death. And I know where to hide the bodies,” he said, before lowering his head again, too exhausted to even take off his glasses.

“I was only going to suggest maybe you should go home, Q?”

“Office. Sofa bed. Fine…” he muttered.

The man was like a cat. He could sleep anywhere. “Very well.” Tanner knew better than to push the point. Q had spent many nights at HQ. It would take its toll eventually, but he was young enough and fit enough in mind and body to cope with the pressure. For now.

* * *

No sooner had Q fallen into a deep and restful sleep (or at least, that was what it felt like) - despite the position - than he was roused from his slumber by a brisk and purposeful knock. He sat back in his chair, stiff from lack of movement, eyes screwed up with the back of his hand against his face and grumbled through the yawn he was attempting and failing to stifle. He stood to stretch, long and lithe, his sweater riding up his body with the effort.

The door opened but Q didn't spare his intruder a glance. “For goodness sake, Tanner, I thought I told you I was fine to sleep here tonight…” He was still in stretch mode and drowsy so he barely had time to register strong hands around his waist and a heartbeat pass in which he was hoisted onto his table, books and files scattering on the floor around him. He was flat on his back before he realised that although he was under attack, it wasn’t by an enemy agent. He squinted down the length of his torso, barely able to see over the edge of the sweater, bunched up around his chest.

“007?!”

A hot mouth landed on a taut belly and it took Q’s brain several seconds to catch up to his own body’s involuntary responses. God… It had been so long… too long…

“Shouldn’t— Shouldn’t you be onaplanefromItaly?” Q somehow managed to force the words into a coherent sentence from an addled brain.

“That was hours ago,” Bond muttered, putting his hands behind Q’s thighs and pulling him closer, causing the sweater to ride up further. “Thanks to you, I made it out at all.” He was working his way up his chest and back down again, reaching for his belt.

It was in that moment, the rational, analytical part of Q’s mind kicked itself into motion.

_Venice. Vesper._

Tanner’s words suddenly echoed in his memory and the alarm bells sounded loud.

_“…good luck to the next unfortunate that falls for his charms. That’ll be a rebound hard enough to cause a shift in the planet’s orbit…”_

Q’s rational and animal subconscious were at war. 

_Bond is an agent. This is improper._

“Stop…”

_I am his Quartermaster._

“No.” Bond ignored the request, feeling Q’s body respond to his touch.

_I am his superior…_

The rational part won out. Barely, and not without a fight. Q felt himself flail around above his head until a hand came in contact with a hardback book.

“Dammit, Bond, I said STOP!” Q almost shouted as he swung the object towards the side of Bond’s head.

Bond was so caught off-guard by the move that he fell backwards, landing with an unceremonious thump of his arse on the floor. Q sat up, breathing erratically and looking thoroughly confused. He had to stifle an hysterical laugh at the look of surprise on Bond’s face. This may well have been the first rejection of his advances since trying it on with unsuspecting females during his adolescent school years.

Q pushed himself off the table and pulled down his sweater while Bond stood up with as much dignity as he could muster and brushed himself down.

Q took a deep, steadying breath. “Get out of my office, 007.”

“As you wish, Q. My apologies for disturbing you.” He strolled out the door, whether it was with as much confidence as it looked, Q couldn’t tell, nor for that matter could he care less, as he slumped down in his chair and tossed his head back to look up to the sky for deliverance.

_Could this day get any crazier?_


	4. Chapter 4

Well that could have gone slightly better, thought Bond, as he walked in measured steps from the confines of MI6 to catch a cab back to his London nest for the night.

He touched the outside of his jacket pocket and felt the solid mass of the gift he had made a special trip en route from Venice to Rome to pick up for Q. A book. A limited edition diary from a genius not of this time, but one whom Bond instinctively knew Q would revere and admire. There would be another occasion to say thank you for getting him through the mission in one piece. Without actually having to utter those words of course. Without admitting to having succumbed to the human weaknesses of fear, of loss, of despair. Bond was not that man. Not one to believe it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

What a load of bollocks.

He sat back with a resigned sigh. He needed to get laid. But it wouldn’t be tonight. He was tired and Q was playing hard to get. Stubborn little shit, Bond thought with a smile to himself. A personal challenge was just what he needed to focus his head. He’d never before backed down once he’d determined the outcome of a mission, personal or otherwise. He wasn’t about to allow this maddening boy to force him into breaking well-established habits now.

* * *

The next three weeks were cool, professional and uneventful, or as uneventful as a life immersed in subterfuge and espionage can be. Polite nods were exchanged in passing while roaming the bowels of MI6 between missions in search of tea and minions hiding in corners trying to seek reprieve from a taskmastering Quartermaster. It was evident to all and sundry that M was cracking her proverbial whip and Q was some kind of sadomasochist to apparently be enjoying the attention.

* * *

“Do Quartermasters even have birthdays?”

Tanner gave Russell a blank look.

“I mean aren’t they forged in the fires of Mordor or something like that? They’re not actually born are they?”

“For pity’s sake, Russell,” said Tanner, rolling his eyes as he shoved him the direction of his office door, “just get it done, will you?”

“Cake, beer and a bottle of Talisker? Right away, Sir.”

* * *

“Mr Tanner?”

 _Oh Lord. He’s used Mister. And in that voice. This could be either very good, or very bad._ Tanner looked up from his station to see Q, his eyes still trained on the screen in front of him with a small smile on his face. _Good then. What a relief._

“Yes, Q?”

He beckoned him over and pointed at his screen. “What do you think that is?”

Tanner studied the data output. “It’s 005, Sir.” Q raised an eyebrow. “Ten minutes ago,” Tanner amended after a second glance at the output.

“Indeed. His last known position. And ten minutes ago, he abandoned his tracker. Picking up some bad habits from 007 no doubt.”

“I do have a few good habits you know, Q.”

Q looked up to see Bond gazing down from the upper platform above his station. He trained a blank, closed expression on the agent. “007. What brings you amongst The Great Unwashed of Q Division? Come to see what toys I have left for you to br—?”

“I heard it was your birthday. I was curious to observe the manner in which you people let your hair down. Much the same as every other day, or so it would seem,” he said, casting a gaze around the room.

_You people. Lovely._

“Believe it or not, 007, the employees of Q Division do have lives that exist outside the necessity of keeping Double-Os backsides out of the sling and on this side of the equation of life. We’re just not so obvious about flaunting it about.”

Q was leaning against his desk, arms crossed, keeping careful eyes trained on Bond as he mounted the steps. It was like the parting of the Red Sea as his colleagues drifted a few feet back from his chosen path, as though his aura was pushing them aside.

 _Tsk,_ thought Q. _No resolve. Pillars of salt in the wake of an Atlantic wave would stand firmer._

They had seen each other a grand total of four times since Bond’s completely inappropriate attempt at seduction; twice in passing in the corridors and twice at mission briefings. Not that Q was counting. Most of their exchanges had been across the ether while Bond was on mission and only when Q’s oversight was completely necessary. And on those particular missions, Bond had been surprisingly well behaved, for all intents and purposes. Extra curricular activities, it seemed, were temporarily on hold. Q was wondering what he was trying to prove. Or rather, he was firmly choosing to wholeheartedly ignore the possibilities. Though his body had other ideas, seemingly begging to ignore his resolve.

_Damn the man. He practically assaulted me in my own office and I’m getting goosebumps like a teenage girl at the mere memory._

He walked up to Q, while reaching into his inside jacket pocket to extract a small, plain wrapped package and handed it to Q.

A gift.

“You know I can’t accept this, Bond,” Q said, making to hand it back.

“Well that’s too bad because I don’t have a receipt.” He lowered his voice before continuing, though no-one was close enough to hear in that moment. “This one’s got a steel spine. With any luck, the next time you clock me over the head, it’ll take me out good and proper. Harder still, maybe some of the genius within will penetrate my own thick skull.”

_Was that… an apology?_

Q somehow managed to keep his face impassive. Bond was impressed. He opened his mouth again to speak, a frown on his face and Bond knew what was coming.

“I don’t want to hear it, Q. Ramblings about accepting gifts while in government service being inappropriate and all that PC rubbish.”

“Why?”

“You know why, Q.”

He did. Venice had been a close call, to understate the fact. And had it not been for Q…

“It’s your birthday,” Bond said, turning to beat a retreat, like a cat leaving the pigeons to regroup and play having enjoyed enough for one day the act scattering them from their gathering. “Open it. If you don’t want it, I’ll understand. Maybe M might like it,” Bond said as he light-footed it down the steps before Q could say more.

“And keep the revelry down, you lot, or M will be down here with the anti-fun police…”

And he was gone.

* * *

Q woke the next morning, slightly worse for wear but nothing six cups of green tea wouldn’t sort out by 10am. He rose from the sofa bed, grabbed his glasses and remembered. He looked at his desk and focussed on the unwrapped gift still waiting his attention.

He picked it up and tore it open. Maybe it was a piece of reinforced wood so Q could indeed fend him off if he made a future move in his direction.

It wasn’t.

The dedication in the book, which Bond had had the good sense to scribble on a separate piece of plain paper, read:

 

_For all the inventions created and those yet to come. To Leonardo and Q, Brothers out of time. 007._

 

It was one of only 22 known copies recording some of DaVinci’s earliest inventions, inventions that would come to shape the future of humanity.

Q closed his eyes and held the book reverently to his chest.

He rarely indulged in expletives either silently in his mind or aloud. He considered this occasion worthy of an exception.

 _What an absolute fucking bastard,_ he thought with a laugh.


	5. Chapter 5

_“I don’t want to go.”_

_“Yes, you do.”_

_“No, I…”_

_“Arthur. Shhh.”_

_Gentle fingers ran along his lips and Arthur closed his eyes, revelling in the sensation. Two years of this man’s touch and he knew he would never tire of the feel of his body pressed against his own. If only life had seen fit to allow him that privilege for a little longer. “What greater honour is there to serve your country in the fight against foreign threats? You were born to do this…”_

_Before he could form an adequate counter reply, he was silenced with a kiss. He broke away after a few long moments. “You know I wouldn’t have traded my favourite jumper for the time we’ve had together.”_

_Arthur found himself laughing despite the tight, hollow feeling in his chest. Gentle fingers lost themselves in his thick locks. “We both know if you don’t accept the offer now, they will find someone else, someone less capable. That would be a travesty and you would be directly responsible for placing the country’s security in jeopardy.”_

_Arthur sighed. “You’re a bloody arsehole, do you know that?”_

_“But I’m a wise-beyond-my-years arsehole, am I not?”_

_Arthur looked at him and felt his heart clench again. “I don’t want to lose you.”_

_The beautiful face smiled warm. “Losing me is inevitable and unavoidable. But you don’t have to lose both me and an opportunity you have worked towards for most of your life.”_

_Arthur buried his face in the man’s neck. “I know. The fact of the matter doesn’t make the truth of it any easier to accept…”_

* * *

Q was staring at the photo in his wallet when Villiers cleared his throat to grab his attention.

“M will see you now, Quartermaster.” Q nodded and rose, still partially lost in the memories of his former life.

He entered her room with his usual quiet stealth and stood in front of her desk, waiting her attention.

“Yes, Q. What can I do for you?” Of course, M already knew. She wouldn’t be a very good Head of Intelligence had she not eyes on every single loop of the chain that made up her Agency. Broken chains were as much a concern as the smooth running of the operations that depended upon the strength of those links.

“I would like to request 48 hours compassionate leave, Ma’am.”

“Of course, Q.”

“I—,” he faltered, completely prepared to argue his case. He’d not been expecting a complete rollover on his request from the woman. Still, he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

M folded her hands on her desk and gave him her full attention. Said attention was unnerving at the best of times, times when Q’s brain wasn’t peppered with bittersweet memories and shards of emotional pain.

“And please know, Q. I am very sorry for your loss.” _Of course she knew._

“I know the sacrifice you made for MI6 and your country. Personally, I am very grateful that you saw fit to step up to your duty despite the cost to yourself. And if I’ve learned anything from you and your work in the four months during which you have been with us, I know he would have been incredibly proud too.”

M’s speech was doing little for the lump in his throat. He did his best to clear it before he spoke again. “Thank you, Ma’am.”

She kept her gaze on him. “I have only two stipulations.”

“Of course, Ma’am. Anything.” He could hardly deny her when she had been so accommodating.

“I assume you are confident that your second can cope adequately in your absence and will be able to reach you should anything dire arise?”

“Yes, Ma’am. That is a given.”

“Good.” She turned her attention back to her paperwork. Q felt his stomach sink a little. That gesture usually meant it was something he wasn’t going to like but if he dared cross or question her on the decision he’d be on the proverbial naughty step for a month.

“I want Bond to go with you. He’s off mission for a few days himself. I’ve asked him personally already and he was happy to accept. I can’t have my Quartermaster wandering about the wilds of Southern England without adequate protection. Because if I know about this, you can be damn sure there is a possibility that others whom we don’t necessarily want privy to such knowledge will know as well.”

Q bit the inside of his cheek. He, for his part, didn’t particularly want Bond privy to aspects of his personal life he would rather keep personal. He was about to risk suggesting a compromise, an alternative Double-O perhaps, when she raised her eyes but not her head to meet his own.

“Dismissed Q. See you in three days.”

“Yes Ma’am. Thank you for your understanding.” Q stepped backwards away from her desk, hands clasped hard behind his back before turning to exit her office.

He stood outside for a moment and was taking a few levelling breaths just as Villiers appeared from around the corner with M’s second cup of morning coffee steaming in his hand.

“Is everything alright, Sir?”

 _No. Everything is not bloody alright._ “Yes Villiers. Everything is fine.”

“Nothing a long walk off a short Brighton pier wouldn’t solve,” he mumbled under his breath as he headed back to his office to tidy up some loose ends and head home to tend to his cats and send them on a little trip of their own for a few days.

So that was that. Tomorrow, Bond would be his personal bodyguard at the funeral of the only man he had ever loved, his soulmate taken from him by cancer, while Q had sacrificed himself on the altar of MI6. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as it looks like the story is going to pitch over 1000 hits, I'll be adding one more this evening to celebrate this blossoming relationship. Thanks so much for reading.

“I hope you’ll forgive my being less than chatty on the drive here,” Q mumbled as they pulled themselves out of Bond’s car, a quiet three hour drive later with few words shared between them over the backdrop of the offerings from Classic FM.

“You have nothing to apologise for, Q. You need time to grieve. We all need time to grieve when we lose something we love. I have one purpose today. To watch your back. Anything else though, will cost you,” Bond gave him a slant of a smile.

Typical Bond banter to try and cheer a chap up. “Thank you, 007.” They walked together towards a sheltered part of the coastline. Bond wanted to ask, curious about the choice of landmark for the scattering of Charles Sebastian’s ashes, but he opted for silence instead. Likely scenario he’d have to get his Quartermaster well and truly plastered first to extract any confessions. More fun than waterboarding at least…

Bond hung back a few metres as they were approached by a woman clad in a tasteful, plain black suit. “I’m sorry I don’t believe we’ve met. Were you a friend of Charles?”

“Yes, Mrs Sebastian,” said Q, taking her hand gently in his. “We met a while ago in the… in the early stages of…” she nodded, releasing him from his need to explain further. “Sort of hit it off over a mutual love of rugby. Kept in touch.”

She gave him a knowing but sad look. “You're Arthur, aren’t you?”

That took Q aback. “Charles… Told you about me?”

“He told me enough,” she said taking his hand gently in hers to guide him to her side, before hooking her arm in his. “And there are some things a mother just knows.”

* * *

“So. Arthur?”

“That piece of information better go with you to your grave, Bond, else you find yourself at the explosive end of some of specially-designed self-destructive hardware.”

Bond raised his hands in mock submission before splaying them on the roof of the car. “Actually I was mulling over how appropriate a name it was for you.”

“What do you mean by that? Old fashioned and archaic? Like my fashion sense?”

Bond smiled at him, shaking his head at the self-depreciation. “King of Britain? Mastermind behind the Knights of the Round Table? Protector of the Realm?” Bond opened his door to climb into the driver seat while watching the realisation dawn on Q’s face, as though he’d never made the connection previously. “Really, Q,” tutted Bond, as he slipped into the seat and grabbed his belt. “For all your intelligence, you really are quite slow sometimes.”

Q gave an irritated grumble but didn’t offer further comment on Bond’s observations. Bond turned his head to look at Q or perhaps assess his state of mind, as he started the car. “So Quartermaster. Where to now?”

Q looked straight ahead determinedly. “I don’t know about you Bond, but I need to get absolutely shit-faced.” He gave him a hopeful look. “Care to join me?”

* * *

They arrived at the hotel and checked-in.

“Two rooms. Under the name Sebastian?”

“Sebastian? I believe we have a package for you, Sir,” the attendant said as she turned towards the office. She came back with a large brown envelope and handed it to him. “Here you are.”

“Thank you,” he said, stowing it under his arm while gathering up his bag.

Bond didn’t pry.

Q looked at Bond as though assessing his options, wondering if getting drunk with his bodyguard was actually the wisest course of action. Bond stood and waited.

_Fuck it._

“Regroup in the bar? One hour?”

“Very well, Q.”

* * *

The Scotch was doing its job, warming Q’s heart and bones. It would be short-lived, but he’d take it where he could get it. He glanced at Bond, both men resting their elbows on the bar in front of them in silent contemplation.

“So. About your gift…”

Bond swirled his drink as he replied. “You know, I was going to give it to you when I got back back from Italy. But then, I walked into your office and you were standing there all lithe and stretchy, and I thought, I’ll give it to him after…”

“After what? You took me to Double O-Heaven and back?”

“Something like that.”

“Rude, 007, and incredibly presumptuous.”

“Yes. And I apologise.”

“An _actual_ apology. I’m humbled, Bond. Think I might frame that one for posterity’s sake,” he said with a hint of annoyed sarcasm.

Bond did what he did best and gave a humoured retort. “Yes. Q Jumping. It’s just not done. Very bad form and singularly un-British of me.”

Q’s laugh rose from his belly. A deep, heartfelt sound that took Bond by surprise. He sighed at the end of it. “God, I needed that.”

He downed his malt, regretting it instantly. “Anyway, your gift.”

“Yours, Q.”

“It really is too much.”

“Yes, it is. But I’m prone to making extravagant gestures in an effort to distract from my shortcomings.”

Q didn’t have an answer for that so ordered them both another Scotch.

* * *

It was midnight and well past the Quartermaster’s bedtime. Evidently.

“And another sling, Mr Blond…” he slurred, as Bond deftly snatched the tumbler from Q’s fingers while he scrambled clumsily to try and retrieve the theft. “Time for a nap, methinks, Q.” The bar was deserted, the hotel relatively quiet due to the time of year. Thankfully. Bond, having imbibed only one drink for every two of Q's, took the matter in hand.

He hoisted Q out of his chair and in one smooth move swept him into a fireman’s lift, much to the surprise of both the barman and the Quartermaster. “Hey! Unhand me, you brutish oaf!” Q spluttered indignantly through his drunken haze.

Bond didn’t spare the barman a glance as he strolled towards the lift and pressed the call button. Blessedly, it was empty.

“Q?” The query was met with a gentle snore from behind. Bond couldn’t help but roll his eyes. They really don’t pay me enough, he thought to himself.

As he headed down the corridor towards their rooms, Bond reached into his pocket and retrieved the key to Q’s. Foresight is a wonderful thing, having removed it from his person earlier by sleight of hand.

Tossing back the covers of the bed, he laid him down and removed his shoes. As he returned from the bathroom with a glass of water and a couple of painkillers to place on the nightstand, he found him clutching the large brown paper envelope he had been given earlier from reception. Gently, he took off his glasses and sat by his side on the bed. He had learned quite a bit about his Quartermaster this evening. Insightful. Interesting. Bond sighed. Perhaps accepting this assignment from M hadn’t been such a good idea. Q was rapidly graduating from being the desire of a sexual conquest to something else that Bond really didn’t want to dwell on right now.

“Don’t go… Stay… Please… “ Bond gave fleeting consideration to the sleepy words. Not that Q would be likely to remember much of their evening past his third scotch. How big a cad _was_ James Bond? Enough to get the man out of his system in his most vulnerable state and move on?

“Charles…” Q whispered, a restless frown and the barest hint of a tear pushing against the corner of closed eyelids. Fingers of one hand were wrapped firmly around Bond’s forearm, while the other gripping the package tighter to his chest. Not that big a wazzocking cad it would seem, he thought to himself, as he pulled the covers round Q’s shoulders and headed to his own room.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One for the road. (Literally).

Bond entered Q's hotel room quietly the following morning. The boy was sprawled face down in what could only be described as a recovery position on his bed, surrounded by letters. Bond noted he’d had the presence of mind to drink the water and down the pills at some point in the night. Good. The car journey back to London might not be nearly so precarious than it would be were Q having to hang his head out the window every 10 miles or so to evacuate his stomach.

Bond bent down soundlessly with the intention of waking him as gently as possible when his eyes fell on the photo beneath Q's hand. He gently slipped it from beneath his palm and took in the sight of Charles Sebastian standing behind and wrapped around Q, a smile so infuriatingly beautiful and happy, Bond felt a twinge in his chest at the sight of the embrace. He cast his mind back to his own not-so-distant past and could almost feel Vesper’s embrace as he gazed at the image reflected back at him. It lasted only a moment as he mentally shook himself back to the present. He placed the photo back in position, noticing one of the many letters strewn about, open flat alongside it, well frayed around the edges as though read many times, over and over. Thumbed by an owner who had pored over the contents contained within in reverence for the passion betrayed by its words.

_"... and when you held me close and lay me down our first time together, whispering, with that infuriatingly beautiful smile on your face, "why don't you just lie back and think of England?" I'll never forget the look on your face when I replied, "why would I think of England when I've got the world at my feet?" Memories like those sustain me, Charles, make me grateful for every precious moment...."_

Christ.

Bond considered himself a romantic, albeit in a caddish sort of way, but a romantic nonetheless, capable of wooing entire convents into submission. Next to Q though, his honorary self-bestowed degree from the College of Cyrano De Bergerac may well have to be revoked. Excellent. He _had_ actually moved his own goalposts, from seeking the sexual conquest of his younger superior to being on the verge of falling for an insufferable romantic. Marvellous...

Bond hadn't realised how lost he was getting in the words until a groan broke through. He leaned forward towards Q as though he had just arrived in the room with the intention of waking him. Which he had to be fair. Sort of.

“Oh good. You’re alive.”

Q lifted his head. “If this is what life feels like, Bond, permission granted to put your Licence to Kill to full effect.” He slumped down again and buried his head with a groan, stopping short as he regretted the echo of said groan evidently reverberating around his dehydrated skull.

Bond retrieved another glass of water and put it beside him.

“Breakfast?” he asked a little too cheerily.

“Remove yourself, Bond, or I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

“Best save the threats of physical violence for when you can actually follow through. There’s a good fellow.” He decided to leave him to wallow. Mollycoddling would not improve his mood. He poked his head back through the door for a parting shot. “Checkout in an hour, Q. Don’t make me fireman lift you out of the building. It’ll be more embarrassing in the cold light of day.”

The groan that followed as Bond closed the door suggested a few memories of last night were returning. Bond indulged in a satisfied grin and headed down to breakfast.

* * *

“I know I shouldn’t admit this, but I sometimes forget that you’re really quite good at what you do, aren’t you?” Q said breathlessly.

“Well, I have an excellent Quartermaster watching my back,” Bond countered calmly. “Seems only fair I get to return the favour now and again.”

M had been correct in her suspicion that someone, somewhere would know about Charles Sebastian and his connection to the Quartermaster, out in the open for the occasion of his funeral and easy pickings, or rather would have been had Bond not been there to save his scrawny backside. The car chase had lasted only eight minutes, Bond losing them long enough to take cover while he grabbed the bazooka from the boot of his car and blew the would-be kidnappers to kingdom come. Because of course, MI6 agents always carry bazookas in the boot of their cars. _“Only when that car also carries one of the intelligence service’s most important assets,” he'd said._

God the man was vexing, thought Q, as their capital city and home slowly appeared against the skyline. But damn it to hell, bloody good at what he did.

“Well let’s hope there’s not an "again" for a while. Or ever for that matter,” he amended. Not that he had minded one bit seeing Bond in his element, in action firsthand.

“And by the way, Q, it helps if you keep your eyes open and actually _look_ at your target as your firing a weapon,” Bond said wryly. Almost a reprimand but never close enough to be perceived as such by a superior.

“Well, I design and invent weapons and tech, Bond. I don’t actually use them.”

Bond looked at him with mock incredulity. “You don’t test your weapons?”

“Of course they’re bloody tested but I don’t do it personally!” Q said, slightly exasperated and adrenaline-pulsing as a result of the last 15-minute experience, but at least his mind was off other things.

“Unbelievable,” Bond shook his head as he drove on, London drawing ever closer. “To my knowledge, even MI6 desk jockeys have to do some time on the shooting range working on their target practice.” He looked at Q from the corner of his eye. The man was looking decidedly sheepish.

“Well?” asked Bond, a hint impatient. Q mumbled something. Bond could only catch every third word but he figured out enough.

“You’re not serious? You’re FORGING your range hours?!”

Q had the decency to look chastised by the agent’s indignity. Bond huffed and reigned himself in, remembering why he was here and the emotional stress Q must already be suffering from under the circumstances.

“Fine. Well it’s nothing we can’t rectify. As soon as we get back, I’m booking practice time on the range and YOU are joining me.” 

Q frowned to himself but decided it was in his best interests in that moment not to dispute the demand. Yet.


	8. Chapter 8

A lull.

No one appreciated a lull more than Q. Time for a little Norman Greenbaum, he thought to himself, plugging himself into his favourite playlist and sitting back, resting his hands behind his head, keeping an eye on his kingdom laid out on the screens before him.

All operatives safe and sound, some tucked up, others doing exactly what they were supposed to be doing. Smooth runnings. No genius required to figure out that Bond wasn’t on mission at the moment. Q sighed contentedly. Nights like this made the pain of those other days when things didn’t quite go according to plan bearable. He glanced up at the row of clocks. Tokyo, Paris, London GMT. Less than an hour until the end of his shift. Home to the cats and few hours rest before the whole cycle began again. Routine. Habit. The smooth click of the clockwork clogs as they slot perf—

 _Ping._ Of course, if Bond wasn’t on mission, he was likely to be in London. In MI6. In Q’s vicinity.

A message on his screen. There goes the quiet of the neighbourhood. _Ready to clock some time on the shooting range?_

Q sat forward, humming to himself in perfect pitch along to “Spirit in the Sky” and typed a quick reply. _Sorry Bond. Bit busy at the moment._

 _Ping._ Another message. _You wouldn’t be trying to dodge the bullet now, would you?_

Q rolled his eyes before running his fingers over his keyboard again. _Of course not. M. Reports. Very busy. Rain check?_

 _Ping._ The next message made him cringe. _Sing me a new tune, Q. Though I quite like that Norman Greenbaum number you’re tapping your foot to right now._

Q looked up to see a smug looking agent eyeballing him from the platform above. Busted.

He removed his headphones. “Armoury. One hour. The cats can wait,” said Bond, while Q exhaled a resigned sigh at his retreating back.

* * *

“Now pay attention, Q. This,” Bond said, as he handed him a Walther P22 “is a gun. And that,” he said pointing down the lane towards the back wall, “is your target.”

Q tossed him a bored look. _Patronising git._

“So,” he continued, crossing his arms and stepping back. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Q put on the mufflers and googles and removed the safety catch, reminding himself to keep his eyes open this time. He’d suffered enough ridicule from Bond on the last occasion.

Planting his feet firm and square, he squeezed the trigger five times in relatively smooth succession. Bond stepped forward and pressed the button to retrieve the target.

“Not bad,” he said. Q tried not to look pleased with himself before Bond continued, “if you want to give the enemy a nice little holiday in a recuperation spa.”

“I hit it, didn’t I?”

“You did. Though perhaps you’d have had more luck taking him out if you’d just thrown the gun at him…”

Q frowned and put his hands on his hips. “I don’t have to stand here and take this abuse. May I remind you, I’m your—“

“Superior, yes. So you keep saying. But not so superior when handling your own inventions. And I’m afraid you do have to stand here and take it, Q,” Bond said with a knowing smile, as he clipped a fresh target to the pulley. “Unless, of course, you want M to know you’ve been doctoring your personal files.”

Q gave an impatient huff. “Blackmail. Low, Bond,” he said as he put on his googles again. “Don’t know why I let that slip.”

“Not your fault, Q. You’re not the first to succumb to my irresistible charms when it comes to my talent for extracting information.”

“Can we just get this over with?” Q said, cocking the weapon again, “or my finger might just slip while pointing this thing in your direction.”

Bond smiled. “Petulance suits you, Q. Quite adorable.” He didn’t give him time to form a retort, grabbing him by his upper arms and spinning him around to face the target, pressing his back lightly into his own chest.

“Let’s start with your stance,” he said, placing a foot between Q’s and pushing his right leg over until it was roughly far enough for his feet to be shoulder width apart. If Q was bothered by the physical proximity he was doing a very good job of keeping it to himself. 

“Now. Take the time to think about what you are doing. Get comfortable. Make the gun part of and an extension of yourself. Create a machine rest with your stance, grip and breath control. Every element of your being needs to synchronise for you to make a perfect shot.”

Throughout the instruction, Q felt his stomach start to clench within, not helped by the fact that Bond had one hand resting on his hip while the other took to arranging his non-trigger hand in a comfortable position beneath the handle of the gun.

_Traitorous, hormonal bastard,_ Q inwardly chastised his brain.

Q closed his eyes and zoned out. Levelled his breathing. Allowed the rhythm of his heart to guide him.  _"Issha Zetsumei,”_ he heard whispered softly by his ear. He opened his eyes and took the shot. 

He lowered the gun, the aftershock of the experience eliciting a slight tremor in his hands. _Adrenaline, that’s all._ If Bond noticed he didn’t draw attention to it, focussing on the target travelling up the pulley towards them.

His normally smug look gave way to a genuine smile. “Head shot. Dead centre.”

He looked at Q, who for once was quite speechless. “We’ll make a marksman of you yet, Quartermaster.”

“Same time next week?” Q could only nod. He couldn’t deny Bond was a decent instructor. 

He silently watched his back as he stowed the weapons and equipment and pondered. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Issha Zetsumei" means literally "one shot and expire."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am literally at the mercy of an agent and his quartermaster. So here's a little prequel to the stages of Bond's realisation: What actually happened in Venice.

_“007. What are you doing?"_

“Reroute the rendezvous point, Q. Send the helipcopter to my current location.” 

_“I need you to go down. Not up, Bond. Get out of the building.”_ Q’s voice sounded calm and steady in his ear.

Bond ignored him as he steered the diplomat up the stairs. Silence from the other end of the line. Good boy, thought Bond. 

“Where are you taking me?” asked the diplomat, confusion marring his face. 

“And you can shut up as well,” growled Bond.

* * *

Bond stood at the top of the building. His mission - almost completed - sat one floor beneath huddled in a corner. _Wait here. The chopper is five minutes out. When you hear it approach, get up to the roof." He nodded. “Where are you going?” Bond turned to carry on up the stairs. “I have a date with a friend,” he said._

* * *

“Stay out of this, Q,” Bond said before hitting the off switch on his earpiece.

He knew Q was watching him from the drone hovering above. He found it somewhat comforting that someone even if only his quartermaster, a man he barely knew, would witness his death. 

He raised the gun to his temple. Poetic. Watched by Q as he took his own life with a weapon designed by him that only he could fire.

The memories were raw. Vivid, like everything in Bond’s mind. The searing pain of everything he’d ever allowed himself to love, everything he’d not been strong enough to keep. How can an agent who can’t protect what’s closest and most important to him, an agent who can’t hold his own world together, be expected to function in the best interests of the country he’s been assigned to protect?

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Took a heartbeat to watch life go on below him on Venetian streets where, for a fleeting moment, he’d found a sense of peace. A calm of mind that allowed him to step away for a beat in time from the wars waged every day and into the embrace of a woman he had loved.

_“I have two cats you know.”_

Bond frowned and opened his eyes. “I thought I’d turned you off.”

“ _Sorry not sorry, Bond. You can’t get rid of me that easily. I installed an override in the comms links. Got fed up with you lot cutting me off whenever the mood took you.”_

“Whatever you’re planning on saying Q, don’t bother.”

_“George and Charles.”_

Bond gave an exasperated sigh. “What?”

_“That’s their names. My cats.”_

_“_ You named your cats after members of the Royal Family…” 

Q ignored him. ” _The thing I like most about cats, you see, is that they don’t have owners, they have staff. Incredibly independent. Hardcore survivors. In ancient times, they were worshipped as Gods, you know, and they’ve not forgotten that fact. A cat in a pickle will always find a way out. Much like the agents who keep the SIS ticking over in a world ignorant of the sacrifices made every day in the name of protecting this great nation.”_

“You’re rambling, Q. And if this is your attempt at my eulogy, you’d better up your game. I’d rather my final thoughts not be an image of you as a crazy cat lady.”

Q laughed. It occurred to Bond he’d not heard the boy laugh before. It was an easy sound, calming. He felt the gun slip from his temple, the cold intent to rid the world of himself follow.

The line went quiet for a couple of heartbeats before Q spoke again. The words soft, almost like a caress. “ _Don't let the dead consume you while you can still break bread with the living.”_

Bond heard the distinctive sound of rotary blades humming in the distance.

_“Come home, Bond. Your country needs you.”_ He uncocked the gun hanging by his side.

_“Besides. Can you imagine the real diplomatic mess we’ll have to clean up if we’re forced to assign your missions to 004?”_


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An extended chapter this time, from Bond's POV, taking us back to some of their previous interactions through the stages of Bond's realisation of his feelings for Q.

Bond fingered the cover of the book he had obtained for Q. It had cost an arm and a leg, procured from an underground art dealer who owed him a favour or two. He looked at it like it was a viper. A complete impulse. No idea why the urge had seized him, literally by the proverbial throat, to do it. He was a slave to his instincts, that much he knew, but those instincts didn’t normally involve treating a work colleague, much less a superior, to something so extravagant.

Bond tore his eyes away from DaVinci’s diary and focussed on the little breather hole in the window next to his seat. He frowned to himself, not even the rather attractive female cabin crew who placed his vodka martini on the tray in front of him could offer sufficient enough distraction from his thoughts.

This wouldn’t do at all. Q had gotten into his head as he stood atop that disused Venetian apartment block. No one got into James Bond’s head and got out alive to tell the tale.

There was nothing else for it. Bond had to regain control. 

Return the book. And seduce the clever little bastard to within an inch of his life. 

* * *

Well that could have gone slightly better, thought Bond, as he walked in measured steps from the confines of MI6 to catch a cab back to his London nest for the night. He hadn’t made an error in judgement had he? No. Not a chance, he thought firmly to himself. He’d had enough experience in the field to recognise the signs in the opposite sex for what they were and they were not so different when it came to the same sex and where their proclivities lay. Sometimes, Bond’s charms were potent enough to give even those who confidently traipsed the straight and narrow line of heterosexuality pause for thought. No. Q was definitely gay. Of that he was certain. 

Bond smiled to himself as the cab dodged the pedestrians and traffic lights that lined London streets towards his apartment. Oh well. He’d just have to amend his strategy. After all, James Bond wouldn’t be the man he was if wasn’t as good thinking on his back as he was on his feet. It was only a matter of time and patience before he got Q on his. 

* * *

It always amused Bond. The way the minions would just naturally fall by the wayside as he strolled through Q Division. Occasionally, he considered that if the walls preventing them from stepping further to the side than they already could were permeable, they would sink into them and disappear. Not that his ego would ever allow him to admit the fact, but he had a deep-seated and grudging admiration for the people that kept him and the other Double-Os safe. But it wouldn’t do to betray that knowledge. The lion needed to wield some dominance while in their lair, otherwise they may gang together and take him down. Geeks, like agents, had difficulty working together, so precious were each about their contribution to the machinations of the SIS. Bond though, hadn’t failed to notice in the preceding weeks during their occasional and infrequent moments spent in the same space, a certain maestro quality to their new Q that bled into Division. It was a brave new world with younger, fresher faces becoming more frequent amongst the sea of faces. And down here, Q was the conductor of the most important orchestra in the intelligence service.

He walked up to the boy, while reaching into his inside jacket pocket to extract a small, plain wrapped package and handed it to Q.

The gift. His impulse. A thank you.

“I don’t want to hear it, Q. Ramblings about accepting gifts while in government service being inappropriate and all that PC rubbish.”

“Why?”

“You know why, Q.”

From the look on his face, Bond knew he didn’t need to elaborate further. 

“It’s your birthday,” Bond said, turning to beat a retreat, like a cat leaving the pigeons to regroup and play having enjoyed enough for one day the act of scattering them from their gathering. “Open it. If you don’t want it, I’ll understand. Maybe M might like it,” Bond said.

He threw a parting jibe to the minions and smiled to himself. Well, if that gesture didn’t get him one step closer to resuming where they had left off in Q’s office several weeks ago, Bond would join a monastery.

 

* * *

 

“Thank you for doing this, Bond. I appreciate these few days are your downtime but I would feel better knowing Q had a pair of watchful eyes. You never know in our line of work.”

“Absolutely, Ma’am. I’m glad you felt confident enough to request me.”

“I’m sure Q is made of sterner stuff than I give him credit for, but just be aware of the emotional sensitivity of the circumstances, Bond. I understand the need for Double-Os to bury their own for the sake of the job, but… well… just dial down the Double-O status if you can. Just for the next couple of days,” M advised.

“Of course, M,” replied Bond. It wasn’t often she betrayed her maternal side while in the confines of MI6. Bond’s suspicions that there was more to this particular Quartermaster than met the eye were tentatively roused.

“Thank you, Bond. I’ll let Q know. Dismissed.”

Bond departed with a nod and set off home to pack an overnight bag. As he drove, he felt a slight pang in his chest but ignored it. It wouldn’t do to be thinking about the loss Q had suffered, the emotional pain he must be enduring that could possibly so closely reflect his own.

No. That wouldn’t do at all. The mission was to protect the Quartermaster from possible threats while out in the open. There was nothing else to consider past that.

 

* * *

 

Bond knew it was a slightly irrational response to the knowledge that Q had been so lax about his own personal protection as to forge his time on the shooting range, citing more important priorities and the need for his attention on other key projects as the main reason. It was only much later, as he headed to Division to no doubt drag Q kicking and screaming to the practice range to fulfil his promise that he realised he was angry with himself. Angry that he had accepted the responsibility that had afforded him time spent in the company of the boy outside of their necessary and wholly professional interactions required in Six. Angry that he had seen him drunk and vulnerable on what was probably the most distressing day of his relatively short life. Angry that he hadn’t had the balls to just take what he’d wanted that night and get the boy out of his system. Downright livid that he had seen the photo of Q and his partner and read the words that had made his brain spin with memories of his own emotional pain. 

_Damn the boy…._

* * *

I shouldn’t have insisted on this, Bond thought to himself. What the hell was I thinking?

He stood close behind Q, adjusting his stance, lining up the barrel of his weapon with his arm, tweaking his body position until it resembled something decent, muttering instructions in his ear, while all the time trying to keep his mind focussed on the task and not the boy himself.

The facade of banter held true, years of practice hiding behind the mask of normality that hid a far from normal existence. _Focus, Bond,_ he instructed his brain, _let’s just get this over with._

And as he closed his eyes and whispered _“_ _Issha Zetsumei”_ softly into his ear, Bond felt the stillness that came over Q, the connection accepted between them for the briefest of moments as he pulled the trigger.

Bond took a step back and waited for the target as it fluttered towards them, a pleased look on his features as he turned to Q to congratulate him on his perfect hit. But it was the concentrated, contemplative look with which he was met that pulled Bond up short for the briefest of instances, as though Q was seeing him for the first time in a new light.

Bond turned away to stow the weapons and equipment, his mouth a thin line, eyes resigned. 

_He would not fall again. Absolutely not._

* * *

 

They are in Q’s office.

“Frankly, Bond, I don’t know WHY the SIS puts up with you. You’re a bloody menace. I’m certain you cost the British taxpayer more than offshore bloodsucking corporations cost our economy!”

“Q. It’s not as though I deliberately set out to damage—“

“Damage, 007, can be repaired. Damage, is a salvageable state of existence. You,” said Q, jabbing a finger in his direction, “destroy. You are a blight on the otherwise flawless laws of thermodynamics!”

“What can I do to make it up to you?”

“Just stop destroying my things,” mumbled Q resignedly.

“I might be persuaded to let you take me out to dinner…” 

Q spluttered. “Me? Take YOU out?? If anything, you—“ Q cut short his own sentence.

“Yes, Q?”

“Never mind,” said Q, making a show of straightening some files on his desk.

Bond walked around the desk and stood close beside him. Q didn’t flinch, carrying on with his task. 

“Remind me what you said to me as I stood on that rooftop in Venice.” _Not that Bond would or could ever forget._

Q's spluttering suddenly stopped. The memory was as good as any bucket of cold water doing its job to bring him back to Earth with a jolt. The moment he’d almost lost their possibly finest Double-O to grief.

“I said, don't let the dead consume you while you can still break bread with the living,” he whispered quietly.

“And I want to break bread with you, Q. Don’t deny a not-yet-dead man his living wish.”

_God I hate you, Bond._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As we draw close to the end, next chapter up, Dinner at The Shard.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Fine. Dinner. I suppose I owe you that much. Message me the details, I’ll meet you there. No. I don’t want you picking me up, Bond. That would be a date. I don't want you thinking this is a date. It's two colleagues having dinner."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the company, chaps and chapesses. Much as I hate to let them go, final chapter and epilogue will be up before the next dawn. Enjoy.

_“Marry me, Charles.”_

_“I’d be a fool to say no now, wouldn’t I?”_

_“Mmmm. I may have to rethink my proposal. I wasn’t counting on your being quite so easy.”_

_Charles laugh rang light and genuine. “If you want me to put up a fight, Arthur…”_

_“Maybe later. Just… thank you for putting up with me…”_

* * *

He looked every inch a man. Not such a boy then, thought Bond as he watched Q approach, led by the host towards their window table.

“You discovered London has tailors I see.” Q was wearing a dark green suit, complemented with a dark blue silk shirt, tailored perfectly to his physique. Q being Q, of course, would never completely conform to the petty demands of London societal fashion, shirking a nice pair of Oxfords to round off the ensemble in favour of a pair of dark sneakers. Expensive sneakers, but sneakers nonetheless. You can take the geek out of his lab coat…

He took his seat, calm and casual, but didn't look at Bond while he scanned the menu. “Yes, well, when you told me the venue I thought I'd better up my game from parkas and hoodies. Just for this evening.”

Q lifted his eyes then to meet Bond’s gaze. He knew that look. Charles used to look at him like that too. _"You know, I have an overwhelming urge to skip the main course and go straight for the man course..."_ Q couldn't restrain a small smile at the memory.

"Nice smile too. When you're not thinking about it."

Q cleared his throat as the waiter materialised next to him. "Tanqueray and tonic over ice please.” Q rolled his fingers over the tablecloth, looking at the view that laid out before them, London in all its glory, the sparkle concealing the grime beneath. Bond remained silent as a church. Watching, waiting, permitting them both the space to allow the evening’s events to take shape of their own accord. Choose their own course. This was not a situation to be forced. It would either evolve or die, and Bond was ready to accept either outcome, as long as they both benefited from said outcome. 

Q’s drink appeared and he drew a long, slow draft from the glass before putting it down and training his jade green eyes, curious and questioning, on Bond. They faced each other, two men trying not to buckle under the weight of the world they had sworn to protect, neither wishing to buckle under the intensity of the other’s gaze, both secretly hoping that when they did, the other will be there to catch them.

“You do realise this is a spectacularly bad idea. I mean in the history of ideas this has to be the worst.”

“I don’t see how having dinner with a colleague is the worst idea in the world, Q,” he replied, gesturing for attention in his demand for another drink. Bond continued, “And there is no such thing as a bad idea, Q. As a scientist, you of all people should know that an idea needs to be given form, then it needs to be tested, then and only then can one conclude whether or not the original idea was indeed bad, or often enough to surprise the most hardcore of sceptics, good. I myself have had worse ideas than this. And some of those have yielded very promising results.”

Q took up his glass again before muttering, almost to himself but loud enough for Bond to hear. “You are such an insufferable smartarse.”

Bond leaned forward. “You don’t know me nearly well enough to appreciate how much of a smartarse I can be, Q.”

“I’ve seen enough of your gameplay in the field to know just how smart your arse is, Mr Bond.”

Bond couldn’t suppress a laugh at that. Sharp, witty, mutually enjoyable banter with a counterpart was rare in his world. He appreciated it immensely when it happened along.

“Why are we here, Bond? I have a strong suspicion that you don’t go in for fraternising with colleagues,” Q said pointedly, as their starter course was placed before them.

“Have you dined at The Shard before, Q?”

“Hardly. I live alone, own two cats and am a slave to technology and geekdom. This is as far from my scene as a night slumming it in Camden Town is from yours,” he said, looking around the place, assessing the pretentiousness, then returning his gaze to Bond, adjusting it to suggest that his dinner companion was the only real aspect of this entire situation, anchoring him firm in this floating piece of glass nearly 300 metres above solid ground.

“Well, isn’t that reason enough?” asked Bond, downing his second vodka Martini. “Maybe I thought you needed a decent meal to put some meat on that willowy frame of yours. Frankly, I don’t know where you get the energy required that I imagine your brain needs to undertake the tasks you do. Do you bathe in the blood of children or something?”

The evening wore on with much the same idle, easy exchange, each man giving as good as he gets. Q feels his posture relax as the minutes tick by, as much to do with the company as the gin and tonics, with which Bond kept plying him.

Bond gently guided the conversation, not pushing or pulling, but dropping anecdotes here and there that he hoped would get him to his desired destination.

On a particularly amusing story about escorting M to a diplomatic function in Grosvenor Square the previous year and watching her get hit on by the Indonesian attache, Bond sat back and raised his glass of wine.

“To breaking bread,” he said.

Barely pausing to think of the words before they slipped from his slightly inebriated mind, Q replied, “And toasting it for breakfast!”

Bond paused in mid-sip and watches as Q blushed noticeably for the first time. Of course, Bond couldn’t resist. “Why, Quartermaster. Are you offering to cook me breakfast?” he asked with a slanted smile.

A slight look of horror at the realisation of what he had said, was immediately followed by a look of sadness and a mumbled apology as he excused himself to go to the bathroom.

Bond sat back and mused. He didn’t go after him. Merely waited.

Five minutes passed before Q returned to his seat. Their plates have been cleared. There was a cloud over Q. No mistaking its darkening presence. “Can we just get the bill? I’m quite tired. Early start,” he mumbled.

“Of course,” said Bond. “Would you mind very much indulging me a few minutes more? I rarely come here myself and like to take in the view from the platform above. Clears the head too.”

Q nodded with a small smile. “Of course, Bond. You are buying after all…”

* * *

The view was indeed spectacular. Even Q, who felt much more at home by the sea, could appreciate the scattered metropolis that was England’s capital city.

“I hate this bloody city, don’t you?” Bond sighed, gazing out at the sprawl.

Q couldn’t help but laugh at the irony of their situation. Neither man completely happy, but trying to fill the void by throwing themselves at the mercy of Queen and Country.

“Bloody awful,” agreed Q.

“I’m sorry if something I said…”

“Not to worry,” said Q.

“I see her sometimes you know,” said Bond. “Walking ahead of me in the street, sitting in a coffee shop, buying a paper. Bitch is haunting me.”

Q was certain this wasn’t a good idea, but Bond had a way of making a person want to share. _Him and his “methods of extracting information.” Bastard._

“Asked her to marry me as well. Shortly before she decided I wasn't worth the effort.” 

He looked over at Q then. “Forget extracting information. MI6 needs to work on tools for extracting emotions before sending idiots into the field, don’t you agree, Quartermaster?”

“Charles and I were married.”

That, Bond did not know. He stayed silent, hoping Q would find his own pace to continue. If he wanted to do so.

“I proposed. During a break on The Cliffs of Dover. We were married three weeks before I took the position with SIS and he went into palliative care.”

Q had been married. Q had lost the love of his life to an assassin far more ruthless than any Bond had ever faced. Brutal because of its invisibility. Because no weapon exists yet than can take it down and save the people we love…

Bond gripped the railing hard. Q notices. “Are you alright, Bond?”

_Of course he’s not alright. Nothing will ever be alright. But maybe… maybe…_

He stepped towards Q, a determined look on his face, hoped that he wouldn’t be turned away, a clear desire written there to help Q as much as he needed to help himself. They are adrift, both know it, but neither know if anchoring themselves to each other is the most prudent course of action.

He reads the same in Q too, that mutual feeling they have shared from their first encounter, manifesting in a way neither expected.

“This is a spectacularly bad idea,” Q said as he moved closer to Bond. Bond didn't move a muscle. “I am your Quartermaster.” 

“And there's no one I trust more with my life. You always get me home.”

“I’m a little bit broken,” whispered Q. 

“You’re in good company then,” said Bond.

“There are no guarantees this will work.”

“None whatsoever,” said Bond, “but I see no reason why we can't be a bit broken together.”

“None whatsoever,” Q shook his head in quiet agreement.

“And frankly Q, I can’t think of anyone more capable of putting me back together. You’re so good with your hands…”

Q laughed into the kiss. A kiss that was soft, easy, familiar. It shouldn’t have felt like home, but it did. And it was so much more than a kiss… until… Q felt that familiar clench in his chest that he had only ever experienced with Charles.

He pulled back. “I’m sorry…” he started. But Bond held him firm. “I know,” Bond whispered against his lips. “She’s always with me too. So there is nothing to feel sorry for.” 

Q stood his ground as Bond moved his whole body forward to wrap an arm around his waist and bring him closer still, suspended between the sea of lights far below and the untouchable stars above. "I know where you go and it's perfectly fine to still love him. I’d be rather disappointed if you didn't love him for some time, if not for the rest of your life.”

"Arthur..." 


	12. Chapter 12

It was certainly one of the more interesting cab rides Q had ever taken, 007 straddled above him on the back seat, helping himself to the contents of Q's embarrassingly eager mouth. 

If he'd woken up this morning and was told that by midnight he'd be locked in a hot embrace with James Bond in the back of a London cab, he'd have sent the bearer of said news to Medical with a sick note and orders to take the rest of the week off.  

Bond extricated himself from Q's lap and took the seat opposite, running a steady hand smoothly down the front of his shirt as he did so.

He levelled a heated gaze at Q. An infuriatingly gorgeous, infuriatingly whatever else, smile on his face.

"Did I mention how damnably devastating you look in that suit by the way?”

Q refused to be outdone. "You didn't have to mention anything of the kind, Bond. Though I imagine it'll only be a close second to how devastating you look out of yours."

Those words, apparently, were enough for Bond to resume his assault for a few long moments more as though they hadn't stopped. He could feel his walls crumble beneath Q's confident but gentle touch. This man who had reached out and found the last remnants of Bond’s humanity, enough to tug him back from the edge of his self-designed precipice with a few well-chosen words. 

"You know you really are something special, Quartermaster." Bond laughed a rich, deep sound that warmed Q on the inside and sent a wave of chills across his neck. “Do you have any inkling the amount of restraint I'm exercising at the moment?”

“And do you know if M finds out about this we may as well pack our bags. Plenty of warm clothes too, for the Serbian outpost we'll be calling home for the remainder of our lives.”

Bond ran a warm hand under his jacket, suddenly aware of the sharp contrast of smooth skin against his own battle scarred body, when he heard a restrained… was that a giggle?

“Oh my,” whispered Bond into Q’s ear, “Say it isn’t so. Our most stalwart of Quartermasters isn’t ticklish, is he?” He leaned back to take in Q’s expression, an expression which reminded him of the look he’d been on the receiving end of after taking Le Chiffre for every penny he had. He simply returned the murderous look with a smile. “We’d better keep that little tidbit under wraps for fear the enemy ever did get hold of you, Q. Not even sure I could protect the nation’s secrets in that scenario.”

He resumed his seat again, watching Q shuffle uncomfortably as though chastising his body for giving in so easily. “And back to your previous comment, let me lay that particular demon to rest, Q. M already knows.”

Q took pause from his fidgeting. “Knows what exactly? Nothing's happened.”

“I told her yesterday of my interest in you. I tell her most things that it benefits me for her to know. Better that way than she finds out by indirect means. So heads up. She’ll be calling us both into her office this week for an official dressing down on the subject.”

“Oh joy. Can’t wait.”

“Now,” Bond said, epitome of casualness. “Your place or mine?”

“Yours,” replied Q, with equal nonchalance. “I imagine it will be easier to leave your bed than kick you out of mine.”

“What makes you think it'll be easier to leave? Especially seeing as you'll be tied to said bed.”

Q barked an “I’d like to see you try” laugh. “And by the way, it’s not as like my restraint isn’t being tested here either. Still, a healthy ballast of restraint comes with the territory of our work, does it not?” 

Bond leaned forward again, the look in his eye suggesting a comment about future plans to invade and lay to waste to the territory of Q poised on his lips when both men's phones sounded almost simultaneously.

“Looks like we’ll have to postpone dessert and coffee.”

“Don't worry, 007. Your Quartermaster will be at his post watching your back as per usual,” said Q, before tapping on the partition separating them from their wide-eyed cab driver with new directions towards Vauxhall Bridge.


	13. Epilogue

“James…”

The rising sun pouring unhindered through the window of Bond’s penthouse bedroom was warming Q’s bare back just as the caress of Bond’s lips began to drag him back under the sheets, when Q's phone sounded loud and rude in his ear. He groaned as he broke away to grab the offending object and frowned at the source of the interruption. Tanner. Not M. At least he could be annoyed at Tanner. Blasted man was more effective than a cold shower in an Arctic winter.

He hit green while Bond watched on, sleepily amused. ”This had better be good man, or so help me..."

Q listened. Then he was out of a bed that may as well have been on fire if the speed of his movements were anything to go by.

Bond sat up against the headboard, hands laced together at the back of his head, to watch the show: Q at his laptop, typing furiously, barking orders down the phone at Tanner. He could just picture the controlled chaos in Division at that moment, admiring the fact that Q didn't have to be in the room to wield his presence like an iron fist.

The show came to a conclusion in less time than it took to boil an egg. By which point, Bond was close to boiling over.

Q rubbed his face, heaved a sigh and shut his laptop, turning back towards the bed. He stopped short.

_Buggering hellfire. Does he even know how he looks lying there like that?_

A scar-tissued torso on full display, legs tangled in dark blue sheets, various portions of sunkist skin overlying muscled flesh peering out from the mess of cotton and quilt. _Of course he bloody knows._

Q wasn’t going to immediately succumb to the pull of the man however, and trained the expression on his face to reflect something borderline casually bored-looking. “Has there been a death in the Royal Family?” Q enquired innocently, looking down the length of Bond’s body, gaze lingering on the growing interest Bond was displaying beneath the sheets.

“There might well be, you know, if either of your cats ever decides to use my lower leg as a scratching post,” Bond retorted smoothly.

“Now. What the blue blazes are you doing standing over there in nothing but glasses and socks looking like God’s gift to The British Empire?" Bond drawled. "Get your backside back in this bed. Post haste, Quartermaster,” he demanded heatedly, while tossing the covers back.

So Q did just that, and proceeded to ensure Bond rapidly developed a fresh appreciation of the benefits of taking orders from one's superior.

The things one must do for one’s country in the name of duty.

* * *

“And if I catch even a whiff of impropriety within these walls, the only bed you'll be sharing is the one at the bottom of the Thames with less than a footnote in the MI6 archives to remind anyone you even existed!"

“Yes, Ma'am,” came the unified response.

"Dismissed!"

Villiers was sitting at his post outside M’s office, looking very much as though he was doing his level best not to grin like a Cheshire Cat.

"Something on your mind there, Villiers?" asked Bond, sporting the expression of a viper waiting for that one wrong move that would justify a strike.

“No, Sirs,” he replied, smile withering as quickly as it had appeared. The sudden realisation that one was being scrutinised by two of the most dangerous men in the employ of MI6 can be quite sobering. “Nothing at all.”

“Marvellous,” came Bond’s taut response as he and Q headed towards the lift.

As the doors closed, Q allowed himself a breath.

“Well that could have gone better…”

Bond chuckled. “Are you joking? That was practically an endorsement, Q.”

“It was?”

“Trust me. I’ve known M a lot longer than you. So yes.”

“Oh.”

Bond turned towards him and crowded him bodily into a corner of the space, security cameras be damned. A brief but hungry kiss, warm with the promise of things to come, was exchanged as the lift pinged and Bond exited.

"Have a good day, Quartermaster," he said without turning around.

“You too, 007," replied Q as the door slid shut.

And as the lift continued on its downward path towards the bowels of MI6, Q realised that while life was far from perfect it was, by British standards at least, jolly bloody good.

 

END.

 

 

_007 AND HIS QUARTERMASTER WILL RETURN IN_

 

**_BOUND_ **


End file.
